In the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon
Where many the ructions meself had a hand in
Bob Williamson lived, a weaver by trade
And all of us thought him a stout Orange blade
On the Twelfth of July as it yearly did come
Bob played with his flute to the sound of a drum
You may talk of your harp, your piano or lute
But none can compare with the Old Orange Flute

Bob, the deceiver, he took us all in;
He married a Papist named Bridget McGinn
Turned Papist himself and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws
Now, boys of the townland made some noise upon it
And Bob had to fly to the province of Connaught
He fled with his wife and his fixings to boot
And along with the latter his Old Orange Flute

At the chapel on Sunday to atone for past deeds
He'd say Pater and Aves and counted his brown beads
'Til after some time, at the priest's own desire
He went with that old flute to play in the choir
He went with that old flute for to play for the Mass
But the instrument shivered and sighed, oh, alas
And try though he would, though it made a great noise
The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys."
Bob jumped and he stared and got in a flutter
And threw the old flute in the blessed holy water
He thought that this charm would bring some other sound;
When he tried it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down."
Now, for all he could whistle and finger and blow
To play Papish music he found it no go
"Kick the Pope" and "The Boyne Water" it freely would sound
But one Papish squeak in it couldn't be found

At the council of priests that was held the next day
They decided to banish the old flute away
They couldn't knock heresy out of it's head
So they bought Bob a new one to play in it's stead
'Twas fastened and burned at the stake as a heretic
As the flames soared around it, they heard a strange noise;
'Twas the old flute still whistling "The Protestant Boys."
"Toora lu, toora lay